


Saved From the Forsworn

by phoenixquest



Series: Ryndoril and Ondolemar [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Altmer - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Markarth, Thalmor, bosmer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1500572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixquest/pseuds/phoenixquest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ondolemar gets a visit from the Ambassador, and takes off to clear his head afterward. He comes across a camp of Forsworn while out by himself, but Ryndoril comes along just in the nick of time.</p>
<p>Skyrim and in-game content does not belong to me, I just play with it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saved From the Forsworn

It wasn’t often the Ambassador came to see Ondolemar. When she did, he always knew it wasn’t going to be a pleasant visit.

She had arrived an hour ago, spending the time going around the city with Ondolemar and making disgusted remarks on everything she saw. From the orc running the smith to the old apothecary, she had something to say about all of it. Ondolemar wouldn’t have minded this – he certainly had no love for this city – but Elenwen seemed intent on blaming it on him, somehow. As though it was _his_ fault the old woman owned the apothecary. As though _he_ enjoyed the Silver-Bloods running the entire city and disparaging them at every moment.

Finally, however, the Ambassador was content to leave. Ondolemar knew that there hadn’t been any real reason for her visit; she had simply been in a bad mood and wished to criticize. He snarled behind her back as she finally walked off, thoroughly miserable from the afternoon.

He’d purposely avoided leading her anywhere near Vlindrel Hall. He’d gone by there enough times himself to see if there might have been a sign of the Bosmer’s return. One time he’d even knocked, but there was no answer.

He knew it wasn’t unusual for Ryndoril to be gone for so long; really, he’d only seen him a few times in the city before actually talking with him to begin with. But damn it all, he _missed_ the Bosmer. He’d enjoyed that night together, relaxing in the company of someone who wasn’t sneering at him.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Rolain said, getting to his feet along with Cyndil when Ondolemar came back into the Keep. “Is the Ambassador well?” Ondolemar’s guards, as usual, had been ordered to stay behind. Elenwen didn’t like them hovering. Neither did Ondolemar; he resented the need for them at all, considering he knew he could handle himself, but with these murderous _lessers_ about, his superiors insisted.

“The Ambassador is fine,” Ondolemar snapped, on edge from the endless berating by the higher-ranking mer.

“My lord,” Cyndil added, “the Jarl wishes a word with you. And a messenger came with these,” he added, holding out a small stack of papers to Ondolemar. The Altmer was not in the mood to deal with paperwork or Jarls at the moment, and so snarled menacingly at the papers. Cyndil quickly pulled his hand back.

“Put them on my desk,” Ondolemar snapped. “And tell the Jarl I will speak with him later.”

“My lord, where are you going?” Rolain asked, rushing to catch up with him as Ondolemar had already turned on his heel to walk away.

“Out,” Ondolemar growled. “I don’t believe I need your permission, Rolain.”

“Shall we accompany you?” Cyndil asked. He was an eager young thing and more annoying than helpful in Ondolemar’s opinion.

“No,” Ondolemar said through gritted teeth. “Stay here. I will return later.”

“But my lord –“ Rolain started, and Ondolemar stopped and whirled around to face him.

“You do not question me,” Ondolemar said, eyes narrowed and voice harsh. He saw the younger mer swallow in fright. “I am leaving, and I will return when I wish. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” both guards said at once.

“Good,” Ondolemar snapped, turning quickly and walking away again.

“Miserable old elf,” Rolain muttered to Cyndil, turning back to the room.

“He does understand we’re supposed to guard him, right?” Cyndil asked, a bit nervously.

“As far as I’m concerned, if he orders us away and gets hurt, it’s all on him,” Rolain shrugged. “Don’t worry so much, Cyn.” Cyndil just shook his head.

*****

Ondolemar demanded the use of a horse for the afternoon from the stable, and finally was galloping away on the back of a black-and-white paint, heading down the road from the oppressive stone city. These Skyrim horses were no Thoroughbreds from Alinor, but they were good enough.

The elf missed riding; in the Isles he’d enjoyed many an afternoon simply riding through the lovely seaside meadows of his home. Galloping through the salty sea air on a finely bred horse had been one of his favorite things to do, particularly when he was annoyed about something.

He wasn’t sure this beast he was on had ever heard of a _gallop_ ; pushed to his fastest, the horse could barely go above a canter in Ondolemar’s opinion. However, a horse was a horse, and though the Nords’ preferred stock were slow and lumbering in comparison to what he knew, they were often good, loyal beasts and he admired their sheer strength.

Settling into the horse’s comfortable pace, Ondolemar’s thoughts started to wander. He didn’t really pay attention to where he was going; he knew the area well enough to not get lost, and this plodding beast wouldn’t take them far. It was his favorite way to sort out his thoughts, even though he didn’t indulge in it very often since coming to Skyrim.

_“Disgusting, how you let this filth inside the city,” Elenwen sneered contemptuously, gesturing toward a beggar._

_“I know, Madame,” Ondolemar sighed. He didn’t care for the beggars, either, but they couldn’t be executed or banished. At least they usually kept to themselves in the Warrens._

_“You really ought to be doing more to make this place livable,” Elenwen said, shaking her head. Ondolemar wanted to snap and ask her if anything short of murdering the city altogether would accomplish that, but held his tongue; sassing the Ambassador was a good way to get in trouble with his superiors._

_It wasn’t long after that they walked by a waterfall – Ondolemar’s favorite waterfall, actually, as he loved the rushing sound of the water._

_“All of this noise from the water,” Elenwen said distastefully. “It’s giving me a headache. I don’t know why they bothered with these damnable waterfalls.” Ondolemar kept silent. He found the water calming, much more calming than her wretched voice that she seemed to love hearing so much._

The entire time they walked, Elenwen complained. The stone was too dull ( _did she expect him to paint it?_ ), the chairs were too hard ( _he wasn’t going to cushion her bottom himself_ ), the apothecary woman was too ugly ( _and she sneered at him here as though he’d personally hired her_ ), the smell of the city was abhorrent ( _perhaps he’d grown used to it, but it certainly wasn’t his fault she found it so offensive_ ).

_“If you have any ambition to keep your title, Master Ondolemar, I do suggest you make yourself less of a failure when it comes to this city,” the mer had finally sneered. That annoyed Ondolemar and it hurt him, too; he was no failure, he was actually damn good at what he did. Just because he wasn’t sitting in the freezing embassy day in and day out, torturing prisoners for the fun of it, it didn’t make him a failure._

His mind wandered then to what Ryndoril might think of him. Did the Bosmer see him as a failure? Would he, if he even knew what Ondolemar did? The Altmer had a vague feeling Ryndoril had seemed impressed with him when they’d talked before, but he’d had so much to drink it was a hazy memory at best.

He wondered when the Bosmer would be back. He _did_ miss him, though he’d never admit it out loud; he missed that beautiful grin, the happiness the Bosmer always seemed to radiate. It was almost infectious, and after an afternoon with Elenwen, Ondolemar could really use a nice bottle of spiced wine and the company of a friendly Bosmer. 

“You picked a bad time to get lost, elf,” an amused voice called, snapping Ondolemar out of his thoughts. He hadn’t been paying attention at all to where he was, and now he saw the horse had carried him right up to a roadside Forsworn camp. _Dammit_!

He pulled the horse up, noticing four bows with readied arrows aimed at them both. He could try to take off on the horse, but that was likely to get him and his horse both shot at – and killed, if the stories of the barbaric Forsworn were to be believed.

“You address a member of the Thalmor,” Ondolemar said coldly, his voice calm. He was more worried for the horse than himself; he had magic, at least. “I suggest you speak with respect.” 

“Ha,” one of the Forsworn laughed, stepping toward him and brandishing a rather terrifying-looking sword. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be lecturing us about manners.” 

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be threatening – ah!” Ondolemar cried in surprise as an arrow flew past his ear.

“That was a warning shot,” a female Forsworn laughed somewhere behind him. “I don’t miss if I don’t want to.”

“So it’s going to be a fight, is it?” Ondolemar growled, dismounting and conjuring up a ward. A second arrow bounced off the magical shield.

He took a quick glance around as the Forsworn rushed at him; he saw at least a dozen, and one that appeared to have a hole in his chest. Perhaps the rumors of the Briarhearts were true.

Using the hand that wasn’t keeping his ward up, Ondolemar threw a ball of fire at the nearest group of Forsworn. They yelled in agony as they were flung back, their skin blistering. He got out four ice spikes at one relentlessly-approaching Forsworn, and he found his horse was trying to help too – rearing up and knocking back several. Another arrow whizzed just past him; it seemed the archer was playing with him. 

He whirled around, looking for her, and her next arrow pierced his arm. He let out a cry of surprise, dropping his ward but casting a bolt of lightning at her; she dodged it and readied her bow again. From the side, he saw the man with the hole in his chest coming at him with the horrifying sword; he hurried backward, doing his best to stay out of range of it.

“Can’t run forever, elf!” the Briarheart cried, slicing empty air just in front of Ondolemar. The Altmer saw the horse still trying to attack the Forsworn, though several were coming after him as well; he did hope the horse would be safe.

It was the most intense fight he’d been in in years, weapons flying at him as he cast spells to barely keep them from hitting him. He had a moment of surprise, realizing no one seemed to be using magic against him, before he was struck in the back with a bolt of lightning. Crying out in pain, he fell to his knees from the force of it; whoever had cast it was a powerful mage indeed. He felt it draining the magic he still had, but forced himself to his feet again, casting another fireball in the direction of most of the Forsworn.

The fight wasn’t going well for him; most of the dozen were still after him, and they were wearing on him far faster than he would have liked. He started wishing he hadn’t come out alone after all.

His horse was still trying to take out some of the men; he gave it a moment’s appreciation for its loyalty before the jagged sword was flying at him again. He felt another arrow pierce him in his side, but didn’t focus on the pain; the pain didn’t matter, it was secondary to staying alive. If he could stay alive, he could heal it later. _Focus on the enemy._ It was what had kept him alive in the Great War.

Ondolemar had moved to dual-casting spells now; it took even more of his energy, but they were stronger and he was starting to fell some of the Forsworn. The Briarheart kept dodging his best spells, still relentlessly pursuing him, and he hadn’t seen the archer in a while.

“Ahh!” he cried out as a second, much stronger, lightning bolt struck him. He still hadn’t seen where it had come from, but the Briarheart laughed cruelly. It was followed immediately by another strike, and before Ondolemar could do anything, he was on his knees. He cast one more weak ice spike at the Briarheart pursuing him, but felt another arrow enter him – his shoulder this time – and he could tell this one was poisoned.

Ondolemar struggled, trying to get to his feet; if he was about to be killed, it wasn’t going to be like a pathetic child, kneeling in surrender. He would fight to his last breath, however rapidly that was currently coming. The pain in his body from the arrows didn’t matter; the poison coursing through him a mere inconvenience; if he had nothing to use but his fists, he was going down swinging.

“Ondolemar!” a familiar voice suddenly called, full of fear. His vision was starting to go hazy, but he recognized the red-haired Bosmer over the shoulder of the Briarheart.

“Ryndoril,” he murmured, barely able to get enough breath for that. Well, maybe he wasn’t going to die after all.

He was on the verge of blacking out, but saw Ryndoril’s dagger plunge into the Briarheart’s chest before the savage could hit him. The Briarheart fell, to Ondolemar’s astonishment, and Ryndoril hurried over to him just as he started to collapse again.

“Ondolemar, what happened?” Ryndoril asked urgently, supporting the Altmer as he knelt next to him.

“Surprised,” Ondolemar breathed. “The others – “

“Lydia’s taking out the rest,” Ryndoril said reassuringly, his hands gripping Ondolemar’s arm. “Look, we’ve got to get those arrows out - just lie down, all right?”

“Right,” Ondolemar nodded weakly, not caring who Lydia was. He started to let the Bosmer guide him to the ground, but then saw something over Ryndoril’s shoulder that made his blood run cold. 

The damn Forsworn archer, standing right behind him, aiming her bow right at Ryndoril’s head. 

“Don’t you _dare_!” Ondolemar cried out, forcing himself up and, having nothing else he could do, slamming himself into the archer. He managed to knock her down so she could no longer aim at Ryndoril, but the next second he felt a knife in his gut; she’d been carrying a dagger as well, it seemed, and stabbed him with it.

“Ondolemar!” Ryndoril cried, shocked. Ondolemar felt the body beneath him stop moving and saw Ryndoril’s own dagger through the archer woman’s throat. He felt the Bosmer’s surprisingly strong grip pull him off the Forsworn, saw the flash of red hair and deep brown eyes, and then fell into unconsciousness.

*****

“I can’t believe you talked me into doing this,” Lydia grumbled. Ryndoril and his housecarl had been on the road from Whiterun for a little over a day, and were now nearing Markarth in the Reach.

Ryndoril had gone back to Whiterun to gather most of his things; he decided after his chat with Ondolemar before, and the joy of having an alchemy lab in Vlindrel Hall, he wanted to make Markarth his home.

Lydia didn’t mind, particularly after Ryndoril told her the house was all but hers now. He’d still want to stay there if he was in town for the night, but most of the time she could do as she pleased (though she typically did anyway). She was less thrilled, however, when he asked her to come with him and help carry his possessions to his new house.

She’d traveled with the Bosmer before; even gone on a few adventures with him. He tended to be a little flighty, though, which she didn’t care for. Often, she’d take out a wolf or two and spot Ryndoril down the road, chasing after a butterfly or picking a certain flower, oblivious to the fight she’d just gotten into. She liked him well enough, though; he was a very pleasant sort of person.

But having to help him carry everything he owned halfway across Tamriel? That had not been her idea of fun. But they’d still made good time, and he’d shouldered most of the burden himself; she really couldn’t be too upset.

“I know,” Ryndoril said in reply to her complaint. “I’m sorry. But it’s just the one time.” Lydia shook her head, grinning wryly.

“I know it is,” she sighed.

“And I’ll even buy you a carriage back to Whiterun,” Ryndoril promised with a grin. Lydia laughed.

“All right, all right, it’s not that bad,” she finally agreed. They walked a little further, turning a corner on the road, and came face-to-face with chaos.

A Forsworn camp had been set up along the road, and it seemed like most of the savages were trying to attack someone while a horse charged them all. A good number of the Forsworn seemed to have been taken down; Ryndoril noticed a few scorch marks and understood that it had been a mage. Well, he wasn’t going to let the Forsworn get away with attacking an innocent stranger, whoever they were, and so he and Lydia set down their packs by the cliff, running into battle.

He’d taken down a few of the savages when he found the Briarheart, looming over someone else – someone wearing black robes with gold trim, and a hood that had fallen away to leave golden-blond hair flowing in the wind.

“Ondolemar!” Ryndoril cried as soon as he recognized the other mer. The Altmer was little more than a pincushion; arrows sticking out of him everywhere, blood covering his ripped robes. He looked incredibly weak; that wasn’t terribly surprising, if he’d already killed so many of the Forsworn himself. Ryndoril wondered where the Thalmor’s guards were, but decided there wasn’t time to contemplate it; he had to help him.

He rushed toward the Briarheart and the Altmer, yelling over his shoulder for Lydia to take out the rest. He plunged his dagger into the Briarheart, taking the man down before he could hurt Ondolemar further, and managed to catch Ondolemar as he collapsed to a knee.

“Ondolemar, what happened?” Ryndoril asked, feeling nervous that the other elf was so weak.

“Surprised,” Ondolemar breathed. “The others – “

“Lydia’s taking out the rest,” Ryndoril reassured him, his hands gripping Ondolemar’s arm. “Look, we’ve got to get those arrows out - just lie down, all right?”

“Right,” Ondolemar nodded weakly. Ryndoril started to help him lay down, but then noticed him tense up. He was about to ask what was wrong when with great effort, Ondolemar forced himself back up almost to his feet, yelling “don’t you dare!” Ryndoril turned to see the elf slam himself into a Forsworn archer, knocking her to the ground; clearly she’d been about to shoot Ryndoril.

The next second, Ryndoril heard a pained groan and saw the woman had managed to get a dagger in Ondolemar’s stomach. Rage boiled in him and instinctively he leapt at the two, sticking his own dagger in the Forsworn’s throat as he cried the Altmer’s name. Ryndoril pulled Ondolemar off the archer.

“Ondolemar,” he said anxiously. The Altmer lost consciousness. “Dammit!” He lay Ondolemar down as gently as he could, looking wildly around for Lydia.

He felt a crushing weight on his chest that had no physical cause; he hadn’t been injured with the little fighting he’d done. To think of Ondolemar having taken them all on by himself, and gotten so far with them…it was incredible. But with the several arrows sticking out of the elf, the blood soaking his robes, and the knife wound in the Altmer’s stomach…Ryndoril was having trouble holding himself together.

He’d missed the elf; he’d had such a good time with him before, and all week long he’d not been able to stop thinking of Ondolemar’s lips as the mer had kissed him. Now, for some reason, he’d been alone and attacked by Forsworn; Ryndoril tried not to think that he’d never get the chance to kiss him a second time.

“Lydia!” he yelled, finally spotting the woman running toward him. The horse was still standing, looking shaky but not running off.

“What’s the matter?” Lydia asked anxiously, hurrying over to him. “Gods. Who is that?”

“A friend,” Ryndoril said shakily. “Get my smaller pack, will you? I’ve got a few potions in there.”

“Of course,” Lydia said quickly, hurrying to do as he asked. Ryndoril busied himself fumbling with the multiple catches on the Thalmor robes, cursing their complexity. He would get the arrows out in a moment, but for now he was more worried about the knife wound. He finally pushed the robes away from the blood-soaked area.

He found it wasn’t all that deep; clearly the archer hadn’t had the presence of mind to do more than a half-attempt at stabbing the Altmer. Lydia dropped his pack next to him, and the horse had ambled over as well, standing almost protectively nearby. Ryndoril found a handful of bandages in his pack and shoved them against the bleeding knife wound.

“Hold these there,” he instructed Lydia. “I’ll get the arrows out before we give him a healing potion.”

“My Thane, it looks like he was poisoned,” Lydia said, obeying him but pointing toward the Forsworn. An empty poison bottle lay directly next to her, and Ryndoril cursed. Just what he needed. He grabbed the bottle, saw it was unlabeled, and sniffed it. It smelled like a typical energy –sapping poison; a nauseating mix of spider eggs and bone meal. Taking comfort that it at least wasn’t going to kill the Altmer, Ryndoril knelt back next to him and worked on pulling the arrows out.

It was a painful process, even though Ondolemar wasn’t conscious; Ryndoril knew how much it hurt to remove arrows, and he didn’t like doing it to Ondolemar.

“You do know this is a Thalmor agent, don’t you?” Lydia asked in a hushed tone as Ryndoril pulled out the third arrow. 

“Yes,” Ryndoril said shortly, moving to the next one. “He’s a friend of mine. That’s all that’s important.”

‘Friend’ might have been stretching things, it was true; they’d met twice, and once had resulted in Ondolemar being so drunk he could barely walk. Even so, Ryndoril couldn’t deny he cared for the Thalmor, and so it didn’t really matter. Lydia didn’t press the issue.

Four more arrows later, Ryndoril finally finished; now the wounds were cleared, he forced Ondolemar’s mouth open and poured a strong healing potion into it. He didn’t have an antidote for the poison, but he had the ingredients to make one; he just had to get the Altmer back to Markarth. 

“Lydia, get our things,” Ryndoril requested while he did the front of Ondolemar’s robes up again. The healing potion hadn’t cured him entirely – it was incredibly rare to find one that would do such a thing – but he wasn’t going to bleed to death. Ryndoril paused, staring at the Altmer’s lovely face; it was paler than usual, with a few spatters of blood across it, but he was still gorgeous. Ryndoril brushed his fingers gently across the other mer’s cheek. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, knowing Ondolemar couldn’t hear him anyway. “I’ll get you back home.”

“Here you go, my Thane,” Lydia said, hauling over all their things. Ryndoril got to his feet.

“Well, I don’t know where this horse came from, but as he’s here, we’re going to use him,” Ryndoril said. “Help me tie a bunch of this to him.” Lydia nodded and the two worked quickly, putting most of their load onto the horse. The beast seemed to have calmed down without all the action around him.

“Think we can get him up there?” Lydia asked skeptically, nodding toward Ondolemar.

“We’re going to try,” Ryndoril said, determined. He certainly wasn’t going to leave him, but it would be easier to not have to practically drag him back to Markarth. 

They managed to get the Altmer settled on the horse; it wasn’t a terribly comfortable-looking position, but with the addition of a bit of rope, he wasn’t going to fall off. Ryndoril led the horse back to Markarth, Lydia following behind as a lookout.

Upon reaching the stables, Ryndoril learned the horse had been borrowed by Ondolemar earlier in the afternoon. He and Lydia relieved the horse of its burdens and returned it to the stable, where it seemed happy enough to see its hay trough.

Lydia reluctantly helped the Bosmer get Ondolemar up the stairs, going straight to the house he’d bought last time; he wondered briefly if the Altmer would be more comfortable in the Keep, but didn’t feel like answering his guards’ questions or being badgered by the Jarl. Vlindrel Hall would give them both peace and quiet, and give Ryndoril a chance to make an antidote.

“Ugh, finally,” Ryndoril panted when they arrived. He could have sworn there weren’t as many steps last time. Then again, he hadn’t been half-carrying an Altmer or most of his worldly possessions. He dug in his small pouch for his key, finding the one for Vlindrel Hall and opening the door.

The trio had barely got past the entrance hall when Ryndoril stopped short, staring at a blond Nord man sitting at his dining room table.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, realizing he sounded rather rude. The man was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. Ryndoril almost let go of Ondolemar to reach for his bow, but Lydia stopped him.

“Housecarl?” Lydia asked the blond man, who nodded and relaxed his stance slightly. Ryndoril noticed then that Lydia’s own hand had gone to her blade as a precaution, though she relaxed at that.

“I’m Argis the Bulwark,” he said, his tone still guarded.

“Ah, I see,” Ryndoril said, understanding dawning on him. “I’m Ryndoril, the Thane who bought this place. I’m sorry we hadn’t met yet.”

“My Thane,” Argis said, nodding reverently at Ryndoril. The elf rolled his eyes, but as he hadn’t had any success in stopping Lydia from referring to him as such, he didn’t think Argis would prove any easier. “By the time I was told of the appointment, you had already gone.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ryndoril said, adjusting his grip on Ondolemar. “Listen, ah – got a bit of a situation going on here, so if you don’t mind saving the pleasantries for later…”

“Not at all,” Argis said quickly, sheathing his sword. He came over to them. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” Ryndoril said, suddenly feeling quite possessive. “No…I’ve got it. Thank you.”

“All right,” Argis nodded. “Would you like me to start something to eat?”

“That would be wonderful,” Ryndoril nodded. It was past dinnertime. “And Lydia, thank you.”

“Of course, my Thane,” Lydia nodded.

“Your Thane?” Argis asked, eyeing her in confusion. Ryndoril just shook his head in exasperation, pulling the still-unconscious Ondolemar into his bedroom and leaving them to chat about it.

“I don’t have time for that,” Ryndoril muttered, setting Ondolemar on the bed. “More important things going on, right, friend?” He started pulling off the Thalmor robes, knowing they needed to be repaired and wanting the mer to be more comfortable. He hoped Ondolemar wouldn’t be too upset with him for disrobing him, but he wanted to help.

He hated the sight of the powerful Altmer lying there, looking broken and weak and covered in blood; it was so bizarre, so unlike his usual self, and it made Ryndoril worry all the more.

After some struggling, he finally freed the mer from his robes, following with his boots and gloves and leaving him in just his trousers. Another struggle allowed him to settle Ondolemar on the bed before quickly cleaning him up a bit from his own filled washbasin; it wouldn’t do to leave him covered in dried blood, though it was far too intimate to wash him properly without permission. He covered the mer in a couple of spare furs to make sure he stayed warm.

There wasn’t anything else he could do for the mer for now, not until he made a potion or two, but he found it hard to leave. He reached up to brush a lock of hair from the pallid face.

“I’ll make you better,” he promised quietly, finally tearing his eyes away from the beautiful elf. 

He left the room, shutting the door, and found Lydia standing rather close to Argis as the man cooked something over the fire.

“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Ryndoril said, approaching the two. He smirked when Lydia jumped, moving away from Argis a little guiltily. “Didn’t mean to be rude. Ryndoril,” he reiterated from before, holding a hand out to the man. Argis shook it politely.

“The Jarl appointed me your housecarl after you left,” Argis said. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“Just a surprise, that’s all,” Ryndoril said, his usual grin not as wide for the worry over Ondolemar. “Luckily Lydia knows what’s going on.”

“Do you need anything else, my Thane?” Lydia asked quickly.

“No,” Ryndoril said. “You’ve done more than I asked of you already; you’re fine. I just need to get a few potions started for that elf in there. Here,” he added, tossing her a small pouch of coin from his own larger one. “You can head back to Whiterun whenever you like. No rush or anything.” She looked a little surprised.

“Thank you, my Thane,” she said, taking the gold eagerly. 

“That elf you brought in,” Argis said curiously, “he the one from up at the Keep? Those robes…”

“Yeah, he is,” Ryndoril nodded. “He’s a personal friend of mine. It’s fine.”

“All right,” Argis said, though he sounded unconvinced. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will, Argis, thank you very much,” Ryndoril grinned. He turned and headed into the alchemy lab and hurried to start the potions he needed for Ondolemar.

*****

When Ryndoril’s potions were finally finished, he took them into his bedroom where Ondolemar still lay sleeping. He sat on the bed and poured the poison antidote into Ondolemar’s mouth, giving it a moment to take effect.

Soon Ondolemar’s eyes blinked open and he grimaced. Ryndoril was so relieved to see his eyes open he didn’t say anything just yet. Finally Ondolemar’s eyes landed on Ryndoril.

“Ryn,” he croaked out weakly. Ryndoril smiled at him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Ryndoril said softly. “You were poisoned. I just gave you an antidote. How are you feeling?” Ondolemar considered for a moment.

“Tired,” he murmured.

“I’ve got another potion here, an invigorating draught,” Ryndoril said, holding up a small bottle. “Just made it. You want it?”

“Yes,” Ondolemar said, closing his eyes. Ryndoril hurried to give it to him as well. He swallowed and a moment later looked slightly more alert. He blinked once, looking bewildered, and then winced. “Ahh…”

“What’s the matter?” Ryndoril asked anxiously, his hand immediately going to the Altmer’s arm. 

“Just…hurts,” Ondolemar said quietly. “All those arrows…”

“I’m sorry,” Ryndoril said, squeezing his arm gently. “I did everything I could.”

“Thank you,” Ondolemar whispered, his somewhat confused gaze on Ryndoril’s face.

“Are you feeling any stronger?” Ryndoril asked. 

“Not really,” Ondolemar murmured. “My magic. I can’t…”

“Dammit,” Ryndoril cursed, realizing there must have been more than one poison. “Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a remedy for that, too.”

“I think…I need to sleep,” Ondolemar said quietly, his eyes closing again.

“Okay,” Ryndoril said kindly. “Go ahead and rest.”

“Thank you, Ryn,” Ondolemar mumbled. He was asleep again a moment later, and Ryndoril simply stared at him for a little while. He was starting to feel a tingle in his stomach every time Ondolemar called him ‘Ryn’.

Finally tearing himself away, Ryndoril hurried back to the alchemy lab to make up another antidote. It was a good sign the elf had woken, but Ryndoril couldn’t help worrying.

When he finished, he once again poured the potion into Ondolemar’s mouth. He tried hard not to focus on those gorgeous lips, but it was difficult. The Altmer didn’t wake this time, but shifted to get more comfortable.

Deciding it was probably best if he simply continued to rest, Ryndoril made sure he was comfortable and headed back out into the main room. Lydia and Argis were still sitting and talking with one another, almost intimately; Ryndoril managed to suppress a chuckle.

“I’m sorry to break this up,” he said, approaching them; they both jumped guiltily. “But I need one of you to do me a favor.”

“Yes, my Thane,” they both immediately said, then laughed at one another. Ryndoril couldn’t stop his own laugh this time.

“I need someone to tell Ondolemar’s guards that he’s okay. I don’t know why they weren’t with him, but they don’t need to get suspicious that he isn’t back yet. It looks like he’s going to be sleeping for a while, and I don’t want to leave him,” Ryndoril explained.

“Those Thalmor?” Argis asked, shaking his head. “They’ll never believe anything either of us says.”

“Tell them to come talk to me if they must, then,” Ryndoril sighed. “Even if I could get him back to the Keep right now, I wouldn’t do it. He needs to rest and it’s quiet here.”

“All right, I’ll go,” Argis nodded.

“I’ll go with you,” Lydia said quickly, her cheeks reddening while Argis smiled.

“One of us needs to stay with the house,” Argis reminded her. “Our duty – “

“Oh, stop it,” Ryndoril laughed. “I’ll be fine and so will the house. Both of you go, if you like.”

“Are you sure?” Lydia asked worriedly.

“Of course I’m sure,” Ryndoril said, waving a hand dismissively. “Go on.”

The two left, and Ryndoril dug out a bedroll from the dresser in the bedroom, settling it near the bed. He would have quite liked to climb into the bed with Ondolemar, but that would’ve been highly inappropriate. So he would settle for being near him.

He rested on it, not tired yet, with a bottle of spiced wine and a book he’d been meaning to read.

*****

_It was dark; there was smoke everywhere. Half the city had been set on fire, and the other half was quickly catching. Ondolemar was struggling through it, trying to find his brother. They were fighting together, but got separated by the last wave of Imperials._

_A Dunmer came flying at him through the smoke, brandishing a sword; Ondolemar took him down with a blast of ice, struggling on. He’d been hit with several arrows and was having trouble walking._

_“Aurelion!” Ondolemar called, choking slightly on the smoke. He could barely see a few feet in front of him, and certainly couldn’t see his brother. With the noise and fighting around him, he was sure the older mer would never hear him._

_He struggled on, desperate to find his brother, any ally at all; at the very least, to get to safety long enough to pull out the arrows and heal himself. This battle had been going on far longer than anyone had expected, and he was running out of energy._

_“There! Another one!” a voice cried, and Ondolemar’s head snapped around. He made out three or four humans rushing at him. He let out an enraged roar, exhausted, but forced himself to face them._ Focus on the enemy.

 _He took out two of them with a fireball, but found more were quickly approaching_. Was it really necessary to send so many after a lone elf? **** _he thought desperately._ For that matter, how were they managing to stay together in this chaos?

_“Get away from him!” a voice roared, and Ondolemar was flooded with relief as Aurelion came through the smoke, brandishing his sword. Ondolemar was starting to wish he’d trained with his brother in the bladed arts instead of relying on magic. He threw another fireball at the approaching group, taking out a few, before his brother stepped in front of him. “Ondolemar, go!” Aurelion roared, pointing. “That way just a little further – there are others, and they’ll help heal you!”_

_“No,” Ondolemar said stubbornly as Aurelion turned to cut down one of the approaching Legionnaires. He forced himself to keep fighting, casting as many spells as he could manage – it seemed like the flood of humans approaching them was endless. He saw one of the soldiers strike Aurelion, and shot them through with an ice spike._

_“Ondolemar, get_ out _of here!” Aurelion commanded. “Go – now! I’ll hold them off until you’re gone! You can’t keep fighting like that!”_

_“All right,” Ondolemar conceded; his brother was right. He saw the older elf’s blade flashing through the air and had to admire Aurelion’s skill for a moment, but then did as he was told and turned in the direction Aurelion had pointed._

_He hadn’t gotten more than few steps before another wave of Legionnaires came at him from that side. He cursed, gathering as much magic as he could and backing up until he was back-to-back with his brother._

_“What - ?” Aurelion cried in surprise, turning to see they were trapped. “Dammit!”_

_“Just keep fighting!” Ondolemar yelled back. “Focus on the enemy!”_

_The two continued to fight tooth and nail, keeping one another at their backs. Ondolemar was on the verge of collapse, but he did everything he could, until several more arrows pierced him at once. He fell to the ground, blacking out a moment later._

Suddenly, though, he felt an odd comfort; he was no longer worried, no longer afraid for his brother, no longer in pain though he wasn’t quite awake, either.

“Shh, it’s all right,” a voice whispered in his ear, and he felt a comforting embrace around him. This was odd; such a thing had never happened that day. When he had awoken, his brother was dead and he’d only escaped due to a courageous young Altmer’s quick actions.

Still mostly asleep, he felt himself relaxing into the comforting arms; it was warm, and he felt safe. 

“There you go,” the oddly familiar voice said gently, soothing him. He relaxed fully into the arms around him, slipping into unconsciousness again.

*****

When Ondolemar awoke fully the next morning, he realized he was very well-rested and more importantly, could feel the magical energy flowing within him again.

Then he realized he was not alone in bed and jumped violently.

“What in Auri-El’s name…?” he said, realizing it was Ryndoril in bed with him, the wood elf’s arm wrapped possessively around him. The arm was quickly yanked away as the Bosmer sat up.

“Sorry,” Ryndoril said quickly, voice thick with sleep. “I didn’t – you were – I don’t – ah…” The Bosmer was very red in the face.

“What are you doing?” Ondolemar asked, bewildered, though he couldn’t find a way to be very upset about it. It had been intensely comfortable.

“I think you were having a nightmare,” Ryndoril explained sheepishly. “I couldn’t get you to wake up, but you seemed to calm down…I…I’m sorry.”

Ondolemar’s dream came back to him then; the nightmare about that last battle he’d fought in the war, when everyone had overwhelmed him and his brother. He realized that the fight the day before must have triggered it.

And then he remembered the odd ending of the dream, with the strange voice whispering in his ear that it was okay, calming him. It was Ryndoril. Ryndoril had saved his life the day before, and Ryndoril had calmed him during the night. Not made fun of him for succumbing to silly things like nightmares, not looked down on him for displaying weakness…but comforted him.

“Thank you,” Ondolemar said sincerely, looking over at the Bosmer now. “Thank you very much, Ryndoril.”

“No more Ryn?” Ryndoril asked, his face still red though he grinned.

“Have I called you Ryn?” Ondolemar asked, frowning in confusion.

“When you were drunk last time,” Ryndoril laughed. “And last night when you were so tired.”

“Ryn,” Ondolemar said slowly, realizing he liked the nickname. Ryndoril seemed pleased.

“Really, though, I’m sorry,” Ryndoril said, getting out of the bed. “I didn’t mean anything by it, promise.”

“No,” Ondolemar said, still a bit bewildered. “It’s fine.” It was more than fine. He wanted to sleep in the Bosmer’s arms again.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Ryndoril asked, concern taking over his embarrassment.

“Fine,” Ondolemar said, surprised to realize it was so. “I feel just fine.” He knew the return of his magical energy had healed him a bit, but he felt far better than he expected.

“Excellent,” Ryndoril grinned. He was very relieved to hear it. “You’re probably going to want to get back to the Keep. Your guards uh…aren’t pleased.”

“I assumed as much,” Ondolemar sighed, his good mood vanishing in an instant. “Ah...where are my robes?”

“Out by the fire,” Ryndoril said. “They were torn up and bloody, so I had my housecarl wash them. They need repaired, too, but I don’t know how to do that.” Ondolemar was surprised by the elf’s kindness.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you could get them for me.” He wasn’t currently wearing anything besides his trousers, and he didn’t fancy walking through the city this way.

“Do you want something to eat before you go?” Ryndoril asked, seeming eager for Ondolemar to stay. He had to admit, putting off his duties for a little while longer was appealing.

“That would be nice,” Ondolemar said politely. Ryndoril stared at him for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else, but then turned and left.

When the Bosmer returned, he was carrying two sweet rolls and Ondolemar’s tattered robes. Ondolemar put the robes on, glad they weren’t as damaged as he feared, and took one of the sweet rolls. Ryndoril took the other and hesitantly sat on the edge of the bed near Ondolemar, looking like he was afraid the Altmer might protest. When he didn’t, Ryndoril relaxed a little.

“So what were you doing out there by yourself?” Ryndoril asked curiously. “Never took you for one to just take off for a walk alone.”

“A ride,” Ondolemar corrected. “I took the horse. Hang on,” he added abruptly as a thought struck him. “What happened to the horse? He wasn’t – “

“The horse was fine,” Ryndoril reassured him. “He carried you back here for me, actually.”

“Good,” Ondolemar said in relief. Ryndoril looked at him curiously.

“You were worried about the horse?” Ryndoril asked.

“Of course I was,” Ondolemar said. “He’s a simple beast; he couldn’t do much to defend himself.” Ryndoril smiled.

“You like horses?” Ryndoril wanted to know.

“Very much,” Ondolemar nodded as he ate the sweet roll. “They’re not the same as the lovely Thoroughbreds in the Isles, but…yes. I do.”

“I had no idea,” Ryndoril said. “Did you ride in the Summerset Isles?”

“All the time,” Ondolemar said reminiscently. “Right by the sea. It was one of my favorite things to do.” He glanced over at the Bosmer, startled at himself; he wasn’t usually so personal with others. The broad grin on Ryndoril’s face reassured him that it was all right, though, and the Bosmer enjoyed it.

“It sounds nice,” Ryndoril nodded. He pictured Ondolemar majestically atop a horse, flying down the shoreline with his golden hair streaming behind him… He shuddered, trying to calm himself. “So why did you take off for a ride, anyway?”

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Ondolemar admitted. Part of him wanted to tell Ryndoril everything, but a stronger part of him was still too private with his emotions. “I just went off on my own and didn’t pay attention like I should have. Thank you for saving my life.”

“You saved mine, too,” Ryndoril pointed out, gratitude in his tone. “But…you’re welcome.”

“All right,” Ondolemar sighed, getting to his feet with the last bite of his sweet roll. “I need to get back to the Keep.”

“Okay,” Ryndoril nodded, getting to his feet as well. He walked out to the door with the Altmer. “You’re sure you’re okay now?”

“I’m fine,” Ondolemar nodded, giving him a small smile. “I cannot thank you enough for your help, Ryndo- Ryn.” Ryndoril grinned widely.

“Anytime,” Ryndoril replied. “I’ll…I’ll see you later?”

“I hope so,” Ondolemar said sincerely. He felt an odd desire to hug the Bosmer, or to do…well, _something_ to him anyway. He pushed it away, though, and simply headed out the door.

Walking back into the Keep, he was immediately bombarded by his own guards and the Jarl’s court wanting to see him. He sighed, part of him wishing he’d just stayed with Ryndoril.

He wondered if the Bosmer might consent to have dinner with him. The idea cheering him slightly, he got started on all the things he had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I love kudos and comments :)
> 
> Still working on a lot to do with these two, because I can't get enough of this pairing. Their relationship's progressing!


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